


and it's just my soul responding

by great_gospel



Series: old souls, new skin [2]
Category: Bleach
Genre: F/M, Hella, Ichiruki, Post-Canon, Reincarnation AU, Soulmate AU, bc they're gr8 i promise, do any of u guys ever listen to the songs i use for titles/summaries?, less vague then last time but still vage, literally only rated bc rukia has a potty mouth, same deal as last time, that was vague classic and this is vague light (tm)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-25
Updated: 2017-01-25
Packaged: 2018-09-19 19:38:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9457637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/great_gospel/pseuds/great_gospel
Summary: You leave me frozen in time in your everglow.





	

**Author's Note:**

> some people were actually interested in a rukia pov of the last fic, so here we go! title from the song by Amber Run, and the summary is from Everglow by Starset.
> 
> i never can stop myself from posting things for very long after i’ve written them. i only posted part one like four days ago and i wrote this like a day later, so ur lucky i even held out this long.
> 
> will probably make more sense if you read you in this light feels like a thing i can’t remember first!! (then again, maybe not bc that barely made sense on its own lmaooo)

She’s always held that there’s a certain honour in dying for a good cause.

Valiant heroes perishing in the heat of battle were scattered across all of her favourite stories as a child. It’s not that she has a martyr complex or a death wish; she just thinks that if you found someone worth protecting and you could give your life in order to protect theirs, it wouldn’t be such a bad way to go.

She scoffs at acquaintances who immediately try to implicate an abusive relationship or low self-esteem. It’s not as if she was ready to off herself at the whim of any potential romantic partner. It was so much deeper than a simple romantic connection – to believe so wholeheartedly in another person that you could defend their life even at the expense of your own and trust they would keep fighting the good fight in your stead. It’s not a concept she brings up in polite conversation, but it’s something that sits in the back of her mind. Not that she ever expects it to play out in her own life, but a life like that would be a life well spent, she thinks.

While many of her favourite heroic tales are tall tales and legends, it’s not such a leap that classical history has always captivated her senses. To know how people lived in times before modern technology and when the ravages of war were an everyday reality is utterly fascinating to her. Somehow, the code of bushido, a relic of feudal times, resonates strongly with her. She’s always felt this fascination and connection to another time. Still, it’s a little jarring when that metaphorical pull starts to embody physical symptoms.

At random times, her skin goes cool the touch and her hairs stand on end. A warrior’s blood is roaring through her veins, and the adrenaline is pumping. She’s ready for an encounter, but not a violent one, despite her body’s reaction. It’s difficult to describe. It’s like she’s being drawn into the past, even more so than she usually is, but it’s somehow familiar. Not in the sense that _I’ve read plenty of books on topic_ but more like _I’ve lived and breathed this before_. She knows she has a deep appreciation for what most consider strange interests, but she’s always stayed firmly grounded in the present, no matter where her thoughts meander off to. She doesn’t long for another time but simply appreciates it and revels in reading others’ real-life experiences. She’s a scholar through and through, though a dreamy one at times, but even she draws the line at supposed supernatural occurrences. It’s not even visions or sounds that she could attribute to her overworked brain. No, it’s just an overwhelming _feeling_ of familiarity that occasionally happens upon her for no rhyme or reason and with no commonalities in between.

It hits at some of the most inconvenient times – when she’s studying for an exam or trying to decipher a difficult text for her research. Other times, it’s like a light tapping at the back of her mind when she’s at the dentist’s office or preparing lunch. It’s not necessarily a _bad_ feeling, but it’s unwelcome and unprovoked, and she just wants it to _stop_. She doesn’t need the distractions or for others to discover that she really _is_ crazy, as their looks imply when they learn about her unusual beliefs and area of study.

‘A pretty girl like you doesn’t need sacrifice herself for some man to want her. Your face will do the trick.’

‘A pretty girl like you shouldn’t have her nose buried in a book all day. Smile.’

A pretty girl like her thinks you should fuck off.

Ahem. That is to say she has enough problems and doesn’t need whatever _this_ is. So she does what she does best – repress and ignore. It’s worked so far in life. But the ‘symptoms,’ as she’s dubbed them, are getting worse.

She’s in the supermarket one day, ducking her head down every other aisle looking for detergent. Even after shopping at the same place for years, she still hasn’t quite got the store’s layout down. She peeks down what looks like the bread aisle, though she’s 90% certain she won’t find what she’s looking for there (but just to be safe) when her head explodes in searing pain. Her ears are ringing and her eyes water. She quickly turns the corner and has to brace herself against the wall for a moment before it fades. She’s just catching her breath, breathing hard enough to draw some mildly concerned looks from other customers but she’s mastered the resting bitch face and wards them off with a single glance. When it’s gone, she carries on like nothing happened. If her steps are a little sharper as she goes to gather the rest of her groceries, it’s of no consequence.

It happens twice more at a similar intensity, but it’s the last occurrence that really matters. She’s got the day off from school and decides to take a stroll with no real destination. Perusing through some cute little shops downtown, she happens upon a café a few of her classmates have been raving about. Seeing the mostly empty storefront, she decides it can’t really be all that great but decides it’s as good a place as any to stop for a quick bite. She’s about to pass by a man seated outside when all of a sudden, she can’t breathe. Even though her head is pounding, she can’t help but glance towards the only other occupant. He has the most uncomfortable look on his face and seems to be shaking and spilling his coffee all over himself. She thinks she should see if he needs help (after she’s taken care of herself) when the air returns to her lungs and her headache has faded to a dull throb and her racing heart calms its beat and she’s comfortably warm all over instead of chilled. And then she’s looking over at him and thinking, _‘Oh.’_

She waits for the pain to vanish completely before her legs start taking her over to his table at their own accord. Her hands come to rest on the seat directly across from him, and as soon as he glances up, she finds herself blurting, “It’s you, isn’t it?” And somehow, inexplicably, when his eyes meet hers, the first thought that comes to mind is a contemplative ‘hm, they were hazel last time’ like that’s supposed to mean anything or explain what this is. But she finds herself sitting down before she can stop herself (curse these legs of hers, truly). The dazed idiot goes for a drink from his mug but hasn’t bothered to dry the hot drink still covering his hands. She sighs (fondly, not exasperatedly, though she’s never met this man before in her life and can hardly be fond of any of his behaviors) and hands him a napkin from the dispenser. He seems to realize the situation and nods sheepishly in thanks and she can’t quite hold back the slight upturn of her lips at his reaction.

That fuzzy feeling is back but it’s not a sharp, sizzling _oh, look at that cute boy_ , but a warm and cozy _hey, it’s been a while_.

While she still believes there’s great honour in giving oneself wholly to a cause and has the utmost regard for heroes of the past, she decides instantly that she wouldn’t die for this man; she wouldn’t follow him into battle or any other extremes. No, she’ll meet him in the middle and see where it takes them.

.

.

.

.

.

_you leave me frozen in time_

**Author's Note:**

> idk why i gave rukia way more backstory and personality than ichigo lmao but here we are. i also made her like resistant to the whole thing bc rukia doesn’t have time for dat shit and more in tune with her past self tho she doesn’t really know it. maybe it’s bc she was a shinigami before and is more in touch with that supernatural shit who knows~~ (did i imply that rukia actually died protecting ichigo??? …hm)
> 
> anyway, this was really self-indulgent again and thank u so much to everyone that reviewed on ffn and to hashtagartistlife on ao3/tumblr! the response from you guys was overwhelming. honestly considered the last piece as far and away one of my not-so-greatest but y’all were so supportive so ty c: bleach fandom has always been the best fandom for positive responses <3


End file.
